


Eager to Be Unwound

by winedark_maverick



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Biting, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Early in Canon, Fantasizing, Ficlet, Lowkey Voyeurism, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Uniform Kink, gotta love a man in a uniform, lets be real this is basically just a "y/n" fic, tozer and the very long no good lonely night, tozer is a slut and a service top now... sorry not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winedark_maverick/pseuds/winedark_maverick
Summary: “Look at you,” they say, low voice burrowing deep within Solomon, “so eager to be unwound. Have you always been so obedient, or is this something that came about when you put on that coat?”Another tug. A low whimper escapes him before he can swallow it down. The sound is met with a chuckle, as dark and secret as the fingers wound in his hair.“Your words, Sergeant. Use them.”“Always.” The answer leaves him like a prayer in that breathless voice he pretends he is incapable of.“Very good.”___AKA: One night, Solomon Tozer finds himself in the Orlop doing the two things he'd best at: obeying orders and being unraveled.
Relationships: Solomon Tozer/????
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Eager to Be Unwound

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say other than I blame that red coat for making me write this… enjoy :) 
> 
> Suggested Soundtrack:  
> "Back in the Dark" by Ramsey  
> "like u" by Rosenfeld  
> "Use Me (feat. 070 Shake)" by PVRIS

“On your knees.”

Solomon hesitates, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the hem of his crimson coat. If he could just _resist_ ; he needn’t bend to such demands so willingly. He’s a Royal Marine, after all. He should retort back, say some sort of-

“That’s an order, Sergeant.”

His knees hit the deck faster than any thought of resistance could possibly manage being and is met with a low hum—pleased and dangerous—from the figure behind him. Heat presses along his back as they come to kneel against him, weight resting there in a steadying reassurance, a promise of what’s to come. The two of them are barely hidden—just tucked off in a corner of the Orlop—but that matters none. He knows he’s done for, resolve shattering easily, as it often does.

A low stirring in his gut. Head going hazy from something so simple as an order. Solomon has obeyed countless orders over the years, but it takes a special kind to affect him so: his favorite.

_Have I done well? Tell me I’ve done well_.

Fingers plant themselves on his arms. As the cold of their touch permeates through the multitude of layers, fire spreads from their tips, pooling into that space in his core. The hands trace over the slope of his shoulders, making slow time up the length of his neck and weaving into his hair.

_Please._

A pressure comes then, gentle tugging at the locks near the back of his head. His hair has grown long during their time at sea—the perfect length for this… or so he’s heard. The figure leans down, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear.

“Look at you,” they say, low voice burrowing deep within Solomon, “so eager to be unwound. Have you always been so obedient, or is this something that came about when you put on that coat?”

Another tug. A low whimper escapes him before he can swallow it down. The sound is met with a chuckle, as dark and secret as the fingers wound in his hair.

“Your words, Sergeant. Use them.”

“Always.” The answer leaves him like a prayer in that breathless voice he pretends he is incapable of.

“Very good.”

_Yes._

He wants to do well, wants to always be deserving of such words. What he wouldn’t do to hear them at any given moment—evidently, he’d even drop to his knees at the barest of prompting. Shadowy corners always make for the most delightful of sins, he’s found. The risk of being heard at even the slightest of sounds, to be _seen_ -

Desire is a snaking beast, winding its way from that low pit in his stomach and into his veins until he’s nothing but a shell, a host for its ruination. Solomon sinks his teeth into his lips to prevent himself from making any sound, the thrumming between his legs quickly veering on unbearable. But he’ll hold off, he has to; he’s made the mistake of spending too early before and vowed to never to do so again.

The figure’s free hand drags slowly across his chest, palm inching across the fabric like their ships across the sea: steadfast, sight set on the destination. The touch turns his blood bright hot and when it grows heavy at the center of his chest, pressing him flush against the length of the body behind him, all goes quiet: anything beyond the hitching sounds of his own breathing, the hands upon him, and the heat of his desire crumbles away into dust.

The fingers at his chest tighten, fisting the front of his coat as he is pulled further back while the figure simultaneously pushes forward. Heat grows hotter. Fire burns brighter. He’s a man possessed, a puppet for lust and whoever is pulling the strings.

_What do you need? I’ll do it._

Lips barely graze the sensitive flesh of his neck and Solomon gasps before he can think to conceal the noise, head tilting rapidly to the side to allow for easier access. There’s a breathy laugh, a light grazing of teeth, and a much-too-quick, closed mouth kiss pressed to his skin. “Let me hear you,” the figure says into the space just below his ear. “Your sounds, let me hear them.”

The moan that spills from him at the words is _loud_ , much too loud for being aboard a ship full of men, to be ignored or played off as anything other than a sound of desperate pleasure. He doesn’t care. Can’t bring himself to care. He’s being touched, being ordered, being desired.

“It’s like you want us to be found, Sergeant,” his partner murmurs into that secret place, as they remain pressed back to chest. They tighten their grip on his uniform, other hand pulling his head back by his hair. “Who do you wish to find us? Some poor midshipman?” Their voice darkens. “One of the lieutenants, perhaps?”

Another groan leaves Solomon. Lord, the idea of being caught, like this, hair a mess, pristine uniform being handled so, pressed bodily against another in the lowest deck of the ship… the thought makes him go completely weak. He’s a sergeant; he’s meant to be as sturdy and unmovable as a rock, but here he is, nothing more than a lump of clay: pliant, just waiting to be told what shape to make.

“Tell you what,” they continue, “I don’t reckon they’d be too surprised either. To see you like this.”

They sink their teeth into the side of his neck, hard enough to send a shock of pleasure through his body, hot breath fanning out over the skin, tongue following in the wake of the bite. A high-pitched, broken noise rips from Solomon and he slumps back against them. Heart racing. Cock throbbing with need. He may not be able to stave off the inevitable for much longer.

“Want do you want? I want to hear you say it.”

Solomon scrambles to find his words, for a combination of syllables that could possibly spell out the whirlpool of a mess that is his desire. Any possible concoction seems so far off that it’s a miracle when he is able to choke out: “Touch me.” He pants. “Please.”

There is a low hum of approval from behind him and the feeling of the figure shifting against him. “Unbutton your trousers then.”

His fingers slip against his placket, gone clumsy with effort and desperation, but once it has been undone, he lets out a shuddering sigh. Pulling himself from his trousers, flushed and hot with need, his hips involuntarily buck forward as his partner’s steady hand wraps around his length. One, two, three pulls and…

The Orlop is gone, his breathing is silent and even, not a single sound is capable of being made. The figure is gone too, replaced by the scratchy fabric of his hammock. Before him is no longer another’s hand pulling him rapidly to completion, but his own shoved between his legs, thin blanket expertly covering the movement.

Spilling over his own fist, Solomon makes not even a sigh as his climax comes and passes much too quickly. The spend quickly goes cold in the arctic chill, and so too does his fantasy as it fades into nothing before his eyes. The heat is gone, desire has dissipated, and Solomon is left to stare blankly up at the ceiling above him while the ship (and all of those sleeping around him in hammocks) sways. A heavy weight settles over his chest like lead, one that been gone only moments prior, but never fails to return.

He didn’t ask for this—to be aboard some bloody ship sailing to the very top of the world—but he did ask to be a marine, and a sergeant at that. After wiping his hand with a handkerchief, Solomon shifts into the closest thing to a comfortable sleeping position that he can find.

_I’m a Royal Marine_ , he tells himself, trying to forget the way it had felt to submit to his imaginary partner’s wishes, as immaterial as they may have been. _I’d better bloody act like one._

Every time, he tells himself the same thing, and with each instance his own statement quickly falls wayside in favor of a guiding touch—fantasy as it may be.

**Author's Note:**

> The identity of “The Figure” was left intentionally vague. Feel free to fill the role with whoever you so choose… ;)


End file.
